by Maggie Marr
An image shot through Lydia’s mind of an uptight guy, mid-forties, with graying hair and steel-gray eyes. She’d spoken to Briggs, a couple of times since starting at the studio.
“Do we keep copies?”
“No.” Toddy paused. “You know there was one letter I got the day before yesterday, and I didn’t send it down to security. It rhymed, like a poem written in couplet form? I thought it was some sort of joke and that when you read the note, you’d laugh and know who sent it.”
“Ecru paper? Heavy ecru paper? The kind you’d get from Soolip?”
“Yeah, soft, like suede.”
Lydia’s chest tightened.
“I put it on your desk,” Toddy said.
“Thanks, Toddy,” Lydia hung up the phone and reached for her keys.
A half hour later, Lydia exited the elevator onto the thirty-sixth floor of Worldwide’s executive building. Cold silence greeted Lydia. Her fingertips tingled and fear crept from the base of her spine. The nighttime lighting cast a fluorescent pall over her floor and the emptiness gave her the creeps.
She slid her keycard through the electronic lock to the outer suite door and then the main door to her office. Lights from the San Fernando Valley and the Hollywood Hills twinkled through her office windows.
File folders lay askew on her desk. She lifted a stack and set them on the floor next to a pile of scripts. A dozen letters she’d yet to read sat beneath the files. Lydia tried to maintain a twenty-four-hour turnaround time on all correspondence coming into her office. The first letter on the pile was from an independent producer begging her to reconsider financing his film. The second letter, sent by an Academy Award–winning screenwriter, thanked Lydia for her excellent notes on his script. The third was an invitation to Jennifer’s birthday party in Malibu—sure to be overrun with A-listers like herself. Finally—the sixth letter in the stack. Lydia lifted the handmade paper. The note was typed, a numeral one in the upper lefthand corner. Lydia’s eyes flew over the words:
Secrets, secrets everywhere
When in Hollywood don’t despair
Corporate heads and stars galore
Create a beautiful well-moneyed whore
The secret, much too big to keep
I think my price will make you weep.
Lydia exhaled with the memory from the night before and closed her eyes. Someone knew something. But what? She’d worked in the movie business a long time—she had secrets, as did everyone. These rhymes could be about anything—anyone. As a long-term resident of Hollywood she’d swept plenty of dirt under the proverbial rug. And as president of a studio, she had a multimillion-dollar stake in preventing that dirt from ever mucking up Worldwide’s films.
The heavy handmade paper felt soft between her thumb and forefinger. She could shred the letters and pretend she’d never seen them. Perhaps she could will the correspondence into nonexistence and bring back the world from a day before, where secrets remained secrets and no one threatened to reveal nasty tidbits from the past. The fear implanted in her gut took root and spread its tendrils through her body. She picked up the ecru paper and scanned the third letter once more. This was real. She would have to take action.
“Toddy,” Lydia yelled to her number one assistant who sat outside her office door, “get me Briggs Montgomery.”
*
Briggs Montgomery, head of Worldwide security, read the final letter. His chin rested on his chest and his brow furrowed as his steel-gray eyes traveled across the typewritten lines. Briggs kept his hair, the color of burnt charcoal, closely cropped. A white starched collar held his cobalt-blue necktie. His hard gaze locked onto Lydia once he finished the third letter.
“Do you know what they’re about?”
Lydia had a few suspicions, but none she wanted to share with Briggs.
“Not for sure.”
“But you have ideas.”
Briggs studied her face, his gaze intense as if searching for a twitch, a flinch, or a tremble. While in the military Briggs trained in psy-ops. He was analyzing her now. Watching for subtle signs that would give away any lies.
“I run a studio. There are a million possibilities.”
Briggs’s eyes released her as he glanced back down at the letters and Lydia’s lungs eased back into a normal rhythm.
“Are there copies?”
Lydia shook her head no.
“Two were delivered here and one to your home?”
“Yes. Well, not delivered. The first and the third came by mail. The second was messengered.”
“To your home,” Briggs said, his tone harder, colder. His gaze more intense.
Lydia understood Briggs’s implication. The arrival of the letter to Lydia’s Hollywood Hills doorstep violated her sanctuary from the world.
“And her?” Briggs nodded his head toward Toddy sitting at her desk on the other side of the glass partition surrounding Lydia’s office.
“Opened the first and the third,” Lydia said.
Briggs arched his eyebrow and his jaw tightened. “Do you trust her?”
Good question. She trusted Toddy with her Social Security number, her bank accounts, and the keys to her Hollywood Hills home, her cars, her vacation home, and the beach house. But with her career? Her Hollywood career? The career Lydia had spent the last twenty years bleeding and sweating to obtain, the career that defined her life? Hollywood was a cutthroat town, loyalty a priceless commodity.
“As much as I trust anyone,” Lydia said.
“That much.” Sarcasm laced his voice. Briggs understood Hollywood. Before Briggs accepted his job at Worldwide he had worked another studio gig, and before working studio security he coordinated personal security for five of the town’s biggest stars. You didn’t complete that rigorous tour of duty in the Hollywood trenches without learning when to look the other way and keep your mouth closed.
“If Toddy wanted to sink me she could have done it a hundred times before and a million other ways.” No, Toddy wasn’t the culprit.
“I need you to make a list,” Briggs said.
“Of?”
“Enemies.”
“That’s a long list,” Lydia said.
“For people with power it usually is,” Briggs said. “Plus, this is Hollywood.”
The letter writer could be any screenwriter whose script she’d passed on, a jobless director whose reel she’d forgotten to watch, or a valet she’d forgotten to tip.
“How do we deal with this? The notes don’t ask for anything. Are they threats? Are they blackmail?”
“Until we find out who’s sending them, or the person finally asks for something, we have to treat these like a serious threat,” Briggs said. “I want to put a security detail at your home.”
“Isn’t that a bit extreme?” Bitchiness edged through her voice, but her home was the only place she didn’t have to be mega-producer-president-of-production-uber-successful-superwoman. At home, on the weekends, she could leave her makeup off, not take a shower (although Zymar kidded her mercilessly), and pad around all day in sweatpants and an old T-shirt.
“Delivering the second letter to your home was a message.”
Irritation balled in her chest. She made movies; she didn’t carry national security codes.
“I also want access to your schedule. I need to know where you are and when. A precaution, until we determine if any of this is real.”
“What next, a bodyguard?”
Briggs met Lydia’s gaze, and she realized that her flip remark was about to come true.
“Lydia, I know you like to lead a private life when you’re away from the studio. I also know you’ve fought hard to keep that life private. I work for you and a studio head who is pretty much a recluse, or was until he started dating Celeste Solange. So I get that your privacy is valuable. But until I sort this out, we need to work under the assumption that there is a wacko out there with a vendetta against you and possibly the studio. Whoever wrote these letters thinks they know something. S
omething that could destroy you and possibly Worldwide.” Briggs tilted his chin down and lowered his voice. “I need the names of your family and close friends. Everyone close to you.” Briggs paused—letting his words settle. “Anyone a crazy person might try to harm to hurt you.”
Fear coiled in her gut, then slithered up her spine as a shiver spread across her back. Briggs verbalized Lydia’s fear. A fear that tightened her diaphragm like a vacuum seal. She pressed her fingertips onto her desk and forced herself to ease up—breathe in—breathe out.
“Zymar and Christina Darmides, Jessica Caulfield-Fox, Mary Anne Meyers, and Celeste Solange,” she finally said. Briggs scribbled the names on a pad of paper. “They’re my family. All of them.”
“Celeste is easy. We already have security on her.”
“You do?” Cici appeared larger than life in public, but she, like Lydia, protected her privacy. Briggs paused his pen and looked up at Lydia.
“Yes, why?” Briggs’s eyes searched her face.
“I’m just surprised that Cici allows it.”
“Security decisions are made by Mr. Robinoff.” Briggs resumed his note-taking. “What are you doing for the rest of the week?”
“In about an hour, I’m flying to Toronto. Zymar and Jessica are up there working on Collusion.”
“Taking the jet?”
Lydia nodded.
“I’ll have Jay meet you at the airport. Just think of him as your driver. No one needs to know that he’s security unless you want to tell them.”
Briggs stood and walked toward Lydia’s office door. She relaxed ever so slightly with the knowledge that Briggs was on the case. She collected the three letters from the far side of her desk, her fingertips brushed against the paper and a chill edged through her. Briggs watched her from the doorway.
“You have a safe?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Then lock those up.”
*
Snow blanketed the streets of Toronto. Lydia shivered and leaned forward in the backseat of the Town Car. Her new security detail, Jay, drove.
“Jessica’s directions say to turn left here,” Lydia said.
Jay pulled the town car into the parking lot of a nondescript brown building with a blue neon sign that read BOYS CLUB. He pulled to a stop at the front entrance. Lydia glanced at Jay, unsure whether to go inside alone or wait for him to park. He glanced into the rearview mirror.
“I’ll meet you inside.”
Lydia clenched her jaw, she didn’t want the blatant display of security trailing her around through dinners and meetings and film sets.
“Don’t worry,” Jay said. “You won’t even notice me. I’m discreet.”
Failing to notice Jay was impossible. His muscles rippled through his clothes as he walked. He must have spent the majority of his life either running down a football field or studying martial arts. His smile was dazzling white, his skin a lovely shade of mahogany. He turned to look at her in the backseat.
“Really. Go, Lydia.”
She slipped out of the car. She entered the Boys Club and the scents of liquor, cigarettes, and testosterone wafted through the air—it was obviously a bar. A gorgeous six-foot-tall hostess wearing a tank top and Farrah Fawcett running shorts greeted her. The Amazon goddess’s breasts sat high on her chest, her stomach carried not an ounce of fat, and her ass looked firm and round like a fully ripened peach.
“Jessica Caulfield-Fox,” Lydia said.
“You must be Lydia. Zymar told me you’d be here tonight.” The gorgeous giant curled her red-nailed finger. “Follow me.”
Of course; Zymar discovered the bar with the most gorgeous woman in Toronto working the door. Before she and Zymar began dating, he was a notorious collector of exotic tail. Lydia followed the hostess down the long dark hallway to a private room at the back of the club.
“Ms. Caulfield-Fox is already here, and Zymar just called. He promised only thirty more minutes.”
“Thanks.”
Lydia entered the VIP room. Red velvet couches sat near the entrance and a round leather booth with a dark hand-carved table sat at the far end of the room. Jessica, Lydia’s best friend and most trusted adviser, sat in that single corner booth and chattered away on her cell phone. A Harvard-educated attorney, Jessica had graduated magna cum laude after editing Harvard’s Law Review. She began her film career in the mailroom, eventually became an agent, and until starting her own company had worked at CTA, repping A-list actors. After the clandestine screening of Seven Minutes, Jessica founded Caulfield Management, and now, only four years later, she managed the careers of a handful of high-end clients and employed ten other managers. She maintained a first-look deal at Worldwide and a full slate of films. Her small boutique company quickly became an entertainment powerhouse.
Jessica closed her cell phone and scooted around the half-moon booth. She held out her arms. The anxiety that lay solid in Lydia’s belly like a giant block of jagged dirty ice melted with Jessica’s hug.
“That was Mike. He made me promise we wouldn’t get too drunk—our call time tomorrow is seven A.M.” Jessica turned to the blond goddess who still stood to Lydia’s right. “Tilly, will you bring Lydia a Grey Goose and tonic, and I’ll have another pinot.”
Lydia watched Tilly retreat to the door.
“Great tits, great legs, great ass? And I thought all the pretty girls had moved to L.A.,” Lydia said.
Jessica grinned. “So, tell me,” she said. She picked up her wineglass and swallowed the last sip.
Sitting next to Jessica, Lydia’s problem seemed surmountable, as most problems are when you’re in the presence of a trusted friend. Should she tell Jessica about the letters? Briggs had failed to give Lydia specifics on how much information to provide her friends and family. He had only told her that while he searched for the letter’s author Lydia should remain discreet.
“My news can wait, at least until Zymar gets here. But you tell me all the gossip from the set.”
Before Jessica could respond, Lydia’s BlackBerry buzzed. She glanced at Jay’s number flashing across her BlackBerry screen.
“I’m sorry, Jess, I have to take this,” Lydia said. She placed the BlackBerry against her ear. “What’s up?”
“The tranny at the front door won’t let me in,” Jay said.
“Tranny?” Surprise laced Lydia’s voice. It certainly didn’t make her very comfortable that Worldwide’s security team couldn’t differentiate between men and women.
“The Amazon goddess at the front door. The one with the bad dye job.”
“Jay, you’d better have your eyes checked.”
Lydia glanced up at the tiny five-foot-four Latina dropping off drinks to her and Jessica. A bustier and black silk corset held her tits tight. Lydia glanced down … was that a codpiece?
“Thanks, Mikey,” Jessica said to the waitress.
Lydia ignored Jay’s yammering in her ear and turned to Jessica. “Is that a man?” she mouthed.
Jessica nodded. “Welcome to Toronto’s Boys Club,” she said and raised her glass to toast Lydia.
Rule 4: Always Remember Whom You’re Dealing With
Mary Anne Meyers, Screenwriter
Mary Anne Meyers sipped her third glass of cabernet and watched Holden lift the Foster’s to his lips. Holden’s eyes matched the Pacific. The early evening sun sank toward the water. Electricity buzzed between them. With Holden’s nearness heat oozed through her and pooled in her belly. Her mind flashed to the only one-night stand she had ever experienced. That torrid night years ago, filled with the hottest sex was spent with the perfect male specimen now sitting by her side.
The skin around his eyes crinkled into tight sun-kissed folds as he smiled. “I mean, can you believe it? After our thing, Vieve left shit in a Tupperware container on my bed.”
“She’s cuckoo,” Mary Anne said.
“Right?”
“I met her before you did,” Mary Anne said. “She slept with my boyfriend.”
> “Idiot,” Holden said and shook his head.
Mary Anne’s stomach plummeted. Maybe he was right—maybe she was an idiot—but how could she have known? She and Viève were neighbors and, Mary Anne also thought, friends. She’d never suspected that Viève would sleep with her completely geeky boyfriend.
Holden watched at Mary Anne’s frown. “What? No, Mary Anne, not you. The guy! The ex-boyfriend. What an idiot. I mean, come on, you or Viève? That’s a no-brainer.”
Mary Anne relaxed and let out a small sigh. “Has she shown up naked in your room yet?”
“No, why?”
“I heard on her last film she tried that with Bradford Madison,” Mary Anne said.
The script for Sexual Being lay on the table next to Mary Anne’s unopened laptop. Lydia and Jessica scheduled this meeting because Holden wanted to discuss script notes about his character with Mary Anne, but the sun now lay low on the horizon and neither she nor Holden had yet to mention the script.
Maybe the way Mary Anne first met Holden allowed her to feel bold with him. She’d picked him up at a club. Actually, she’d snatched him away from Viève’s clutches. Out of character for Mary Anne, definitely, but the payback—stealing Viève’s lover after Viève had slept with Mary Anne’s—felt surprisingly good. Mary Anne remembered Holden’s forlorn look when after their rendezvous he offered up his number to her and she’d declined. Not because of him—he completely turned her on—but because she didn’t want any attachments. Not long after, though, she’d met Adam.
Until now she believed that her amazing night with Holden would remain a Hollywood memory. A story perhaps to share with her grandchildren—of course in an edited form.
Holden reached out his hand and placed it on the small of Mary Anne’s back, where her jeans played peekaboo with her thong.
Mary Anne sat up straighter and felt a tingling between her legs. Holden slipped his hand down the back of her jeans. Holden Humphrey was now cupping her ass at Shutters on the Beach. Mary Anne took a quick look around the patio—if she weren’t tipsy, she might be concerned. Holden leaned forward, and his lips brushed her earlobe.
